


Currencies

by astrotheology



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Character Study, Experimental, Ficlet, weird friendships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-03-02 00:17:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13306371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrotheology/pseuds/astrotheology
Summary: Money is a commodity to be bought and sold. The currency is something else entirely.(Can I tell you a secret?)





	Currencies

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is based on an ask prompt i got from ariecide on tumblr, which was a one-sentence dialogue prompt ("Can I tell you a secret?") between two characters: 76 and sombra.
> 
> in case you aren't too familiar with overwatch's lore, mexico had massive power outages due to the omnic crisis and parts of it are still without electricial grids to this day, or have incredibly unstable grids. this is known as "la medianoche" (the midnight). to celebrate power coming back they have "fiesta de la luz" (festival of the lights). lumerico is in some shady shit and isn't doing its best to restore power to mexico, or restoring it only for rich people.
> 
> this is kind of an outline ficlet for a longer fic i have planned, so some things are left vague for further exploration. thanks for reading.

Sombra had two million pesos in two hundred and seven accounts at Banxico, three hundred thousand dollars under a politician’s name in Wells Fargo, the bank account numbers (and dirty text collections) of thirteen corporate executives in ten different countries, and the owner of a minorly profitable silver mine/money laundering scheme in Chile under her well-manicured thumb. That, and the couch cushion had a couple 20-peso notes stuffed into a rip in the seam. She sat pretty on top of a pile of money, and it was useless.

Money had been precious once. The men and women dripping sweat and staring into their webcams babbling “Please, take it, take my money, don’t release it, don’t tell anyone,” at the cold robotic eye of the camera had been thrilling when she was fourteen and hadn’t eaten anything other than tamales stolen out of the market _tamaleras_ two days ago, sick of corn but starving. She had eaten her ill-gotten gains cold in the dark as the blackouts reached day 62. She took their money and released their emails anyway, then bought what felt like half the bodega and ate herself sick. She cleaned up the vomit and did the whole thing over again. The blackouts reached day 63.

It took her years to realize that money was a commodity, not a currency. The realization came with a sea change. The men and women still begged and still bargained, but when they turned out their pocketbooks they were met not with a drained bank account and a _“pleasure doing business with you,”_ but a winky face and a _“i’ll take it, but that’s not what I want.”_ The corrupt officials, the paid-off policemen, the politicians and the executives and the drug lords and the powerful, they all asked the same question: What do you want? - and she gave them all the same answer.

_I want your secrets. :^)_

Information makes the world go ‘round, Sombra repeated to herself, uncovering conspiracy after sex scandal after coverup after bombshell. All the quintillions of zettabytes of it. It became a mantra by which she lived, and more importantly, the currency. She could buy anything with information. People, places, things, power, money. It was so wonderful, she sold her life and her name for it. Later, she found she wasn’t the only one.

The man in the mask understood her. He had few things to his name. A rifle, a jacket, and a few scars were all he had taken with him to Dorado. He had sold everything else for a half-mad goose chase after information that he would use to buy justice; he’d even sold the color in his hair, which was a shame. Sombra thought Jack looked better as a blond.

She’d bought his name from Alejandra. Sombra paid the local panadería handsomely in both money and visits, as her addiction to their corbatas was crippling. A new poster behind the counter as Ale checked her out caught her eye.

“Ay, Ale. ¿Qué es eso?” she’d asked, pointing towards the faded faces of Overwatch’s finest that were carefully taped to the wall underneath the chalkboard menu. Ale had looked behind her and grinned wildly. She pushed the bag of corbatas into Sombra’s hands.

“Una foto de mi salvador,” she gushed, turning back to face the poster and pointing at the blonde man with a stern look on his face, apparently ready to save the world. _Savior?_ “Él. Él me salvó. Mas o menos. Anoche… pues… escucha a esto.” She launched into a tale of Los Muertos, men beating each other with piñatas, grenades, and a man with a bright red 76 on his back. He’d chased them off with force and an enormous rifle, and protected her from the blast that had been all over the holovids that morning. The imaginings of third parties in Dorado worried Sombra. To make the imaginings concrete was a blessing. “Eso hombre, el soldado, era uno de ellos,” she had proclaimed, waving a hand at the yellowed agents. “Era de Overwatch.” There was a sparkle somewhere in her eyes that had little to do with the sconces flickering on the walls. Sombra had thanked her for the story, her time, and her bread, then paid her a hefty tip that Alejandra refused and that Sombra put into her mother’s bank account that afternoon anyways.

Once home, Sombra had put together that Jack Morrison was alive, kicking on the first corbata and punching gang members out on the second. She leaked fake information on Los Muertos’ activities to draw him out of hiding on her fourth. The rest were eaten in shadow, dark and digital hands poking around the United Nations database. In less than 24 hours, she and the soldier were acquainted. In 24 days, they were conspirators.

All this came back to Sombra as she waited outside the great ziggurat of Lumérico, looking out at the sea as the stars glittered off the waves. In Dorado, people celebrated. La Fiesta de la Luz was in full swing. Lanterns and piñatas hung over the crowded streets like branches heavy with sugary, fiery fruit, the memorial of La Medianoche was covered in flowers, and bright blazing light spilled into every corner of the plaza. If Sombra and Jack’s months of careful planning came to fruition, it would spread to the whole city.

As Sombra stared out at the water, she heard the soldier walk up behind her - his footsteps were quiet underneath the raucous guitars and cheers blocks behind them. She turned to look at him. They held each other’s gaze without saying a word, then Jack brought a hesitant hand to the mask and peeled it away from his face. Sombra had seen him without the mask before in moments of strange vulnerability. She had paid time and trust for those. 

Jack clenched the visor in one hand and bent to lean on the railing to Sombra’s right. He closed his eyes and let the breeze play on his face for a moment, then spoke -

“Can I tell you a secret?”

Sombra stared at Jack for a moment, then gave a single, slow nod.

Jack met her gaze straight on. “Overwatch is reviving itself. An emergency call went out to all former agents a month or two back. There’s been activity in the U.S., in Gibraltar, in Rio - names like Tracer and Reinhardt have been reappearing in the newsfeeds.” He turned towards the water. “I’m thinking Morrison might, too.”

There was a long pause. Sombra already knew Overwatch was alive again, but that Jack would go back - that was new. “So you’re sending your résumé back. Why tell me?” Sombra asked.

“Because the secrets never come free,” Jack said. The hint of a quirk at the corner of his mouth made Sombra imagine he might be smiling. “And the price is that you do something for me.”

“What do you mean?” Sombra asked, her brow furrowing as she searched his face for a punchline.

“Join Overwatch,” Jack replied simply. He held out a hand towards the ziggurat. “Bring not only Mexico, but the world back into the light.” At Sombra’s stunned expression, he put the mask back on and hefted his rifle up onto his shoulder. “Think about it. I’ll wait for an answer after we get some from Lumérico.” He walked off towards the power plant and waved Sombra along with him. The bright red 76 faded away into the shadows of the building. She hesitated, then carefully followed him in.

Sombra had two million terabytes of data from Vishkar in two hundred and seven servers across Europe, three hundred thousand dollars in dirty money, the codenames (and identities) of thirteen Talon councilmembers in ten different countries, and the name Gabriel Reyes. That, and the world at the tips of her fingers. She was sitting pretty on top of a pile of information, and with it, she was going to buy back the lights.


End file.
